A/N: I've finally updated this chapter! For those of you who don't know, this fic was a rewrite of one I wrote over a year ago and didn't publish. The first time I wrote this chapter, I left out quite a few details. It's fixed now! I'm sorry for the inconvenience, but I will be posting new chapters soon. Thanks for reading!

He slid against the wall, knees drawn up to his chest. His breathing was ragged and bordered on the edge of hysterical.

"No, no, no..." the small child's voice muttered. He pressed his hands against his ears, trying to drown out the sound of the dinner he had just run away from. Still, he couldn't stop it from replaying in his head...

"Mum, is there a reason that nothing bad ever happens to us?" the little boy asked. His mother froze and her brows drew close together, almost angrily.

"Why do you ask, James?" When she addressed her nine year old son, her voice was definitely more tense than usual.

"Our life just always seems so perfect. Don't things go wrong?" James asked.

"Don't ask questions, his father snapped, which was strange. At the Moriarty household, questions were welcomed. Their motto was "Question the improbable, challenge the impossible."

"Please, dad... I just want to help."

"We don't want your help, James!"

"S-Sorry..." James replied, stumbling over his words. At his apology, the table grew quiet. His parents exchanged looks before turning their gaze to him.

"That's absolutely fine, James," his mother said, patting his hand. "Would you please pass me the salt?" James wrapped a hand around the salt, still thinking.

"No," he said. "No. Why does nothing bad ever happen to us? When it does, the problem disappears the next day. As if nothing was wrong in the first place." James's dark brown eyes flicked across the table.

"GODDAMNIT, JAMES!" his father screamed suddenly. "WHO DO YOU THINK WE'RE DOING THIS FOR? DON'T BE SO OBVIOUS!"

It wasn't just his father who was angry. His mother had slammed her hand down on the table, knocking her glass over the edge. It shattered.

"JAMES, YOU PATHETIC EXCUSE FOR A SON!" she screeched. James sat shell shocked at the table, one hand still wrapped around the salt." We're doing all this for you, yet you still ask stupid questions!"

"Doing all what for me?" he whispered with a raspy voice, barely audible.

"My God, you can't even figure that out?!" his father laughed. "You really are boring! Ordinary and boring!"

"Why don't you do us all a favor? Get the hell out of here!" his mother screamed.

So James did exactly that. He ran out of the door, stopping just to grab the first coat he could find – a ragged blue raincoat that was so big he was almost tripping in it as he ran out the door. He ran to nowhere in particular until he couldn't anymore, which just so happened to be all the way to London's homeless network. He muddled at the entrance of the concrete building, panting. The tunnel inside was immensely dark; all that lit the tunnels were dingy light bulbs scattered every 30 feet, and they produced nothing but a small circle of light.

James Moriarty peered into the darkness. Yes, this would do.

The chill of the tunnel blew right through his raincoat. Vaguely, James remembered that he and his parents were supposed to go shopping for winter coats after dinner. So much for that. James tightened his hands around the sides of the coat and tried to wrap himself with it. His attempt at heat was useless, though; James shivered, his breath was barely visible through the dark in puffs of steam.

"Hey," a voice called out through the darkness. "What's wrong, now?"

James froze, eyes darting everywhere. He couldn't see who was there, but he heard the zip of a zipper and someone fishing through their pocket. In a few moments, a flashlight clicked on.

"Turn the light off! I'm armed!" James tried to yell threateningly. Despite his best efforts at bluffing, his voice cracked and the beam of light fell directly on him. James was clever, undeniably smart, in fact. But he had never been very good under pressure.

"You're just a lad!" the man holding the flashlight scoffed. James squinted at the light. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm not leaving," James said strongly. "I don't care what you say, there's no way I'm not going back." He scrambled up to his feet and produced the best glare he could.

The voice chuckled. "Don't worry, I'm with the police. I won't hurt you." James's heart raced. "I'm not here for you, anyway. I'm here inspecting a crime. It's my job. I just happened to hear you crying, and, well, here I am."

"I'm not crying," James scoffed. "I don't cry."

The man stooped down so he was level with James. It might have been dark, but James could make out his features. He had dark black hair, seemed to be in his late twenties, and his eyes were the color of dark chocolate. James's eyes darted over him, drinking in all the details.

"You're not a police officer," James pointed out.

"No, but I'm training to become one. That doesn't mean I'm not with the police."

"I know that. You didn't let me finish." James huffed, crossing his arms.

"Go on, then." The man said, looking slightly amused. "No rush."

"You don't want to be a police officer. You're not doing it because of the money; you're rich. Someone's forcing you to. I can tell 'cause of your weird socks. Plus, you've got bags under your eyes." James said. The man's amusement melted into seriousness.

"My socks?" He asked.

"Yeah. Now leave me alone." James spun around and sank to his knees, facing the wall.

"I can't just leave you here," the man insisted.

"Yes, you can. And you can't make me move."

"You need to, it's the law, and-" the man babbled on about his stupid police work. James shut his eyes and rested his head against the wall, trying to shut him out.

His parents. James's own parents had abandoned him because he was too boring. Why was that? Was James not good enough? Or was he too perfect for the part? Either way, James was on his own now. Even if he did return to his parents, there was no guarantee that they would want him back.

"Hey," the man said softly. He put a hand on James's shoulder and turned him around.

"Leave me alone!" James shouted, raising his hand to hit him. But he stopped. The man's fingers touched his cheek, and when they pulled away, they were wet.

"See, you have been crying," the man said. James froze and stared at his fingers, still not believing that it was real.

James Moriarty... Cry? He hadn't cried in his entire life.

"I'm NOT!" James whined, rubbing furiously at his face with the thin fabric of his jacket.

"Tell me, what's wrong?" The man asked, sitting down more comfortably and locking eyes with him. James flushed and looked away.

"I'm not going back home." James mumbled, wiping the last traces of tears away. "I'm never going back home."

"I'm not saying you have to," the man said. "Right now, at least. I can't make promises, but... Why don't you just come to my flat for now?"

"No." James shook his head. "I don't even know your name."

"Gregory Lestrade. Call me Greg. And you?" The man, Greg, gave him an empathetic smile. James sniffed indignantly and opened his mouth sheepishly.

"I'm not telling." James shuffled his feet awkwardly.

"Come on, I'm with the police, if you don't remember. You can trust me."

"Well…" James stood up slowly and smiled just enough to look sweet and innocent. Without a word of warning, he spun on his heel and dashed into the shadows.

"Hey!" Greg called, breaking into a run just behind him.

James ducked into the darkest corridor, huddled against the wall. His breath rattled. He hugged his knees and covered his mouth with a hand, afraid to make any sort of noise that might hint to where he was.

Greg's footsteps stopped not much further ahead, but only for a quick moment. He then continued to run, shouting 'come back!' every time he had the breath to.

Just like that, James was once again alone.

The inky darkness was slightly terrifying without anyone there with him. It didn't matter, though. James was homeless now, and he lived on his own. Darkness was something he'd have to get used to.

So, despite the bitter cold, the heavy darkness, and the voices of his parents still echoing in his head, James laid his head on the floor. He shifted to get more comfortable, but soon realized that the concrete would never feel like his warm bed back home.

A foggy and restless sleep enveloped him, and James was carried off into a world of his own horrible thoughts.

A/N: Thanks again! I want to know how I did and if there's anything I can improve or add. What would you like to see? Please review! I love you all! ^_^